


Cicatrice

by Nasserwraith



Category: Baldur's Gate, Baldur's Gate III, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Elf Sex, F/M, Magic, Memories, Nightmares, Smut, Tension, Vampire Bites
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasserwraith/pseuds/Nasserwraith
Summary: Someone is hunting Astarion, that’s for certain. But for once, he doesn’t mind.(This is my take on an Astarion/Elven Female OC romance and love scene in Baldur’s Gate III. Right now, it’s a stand-alone piece but given how much I enjoy telling stories, I might expand it into something more significant later on. We’ll see how it goes. Rated E for a reason).UPDATE: Well, this has now turned into a story. I've changed it back to In-Progress and I'll be adding new chapters every couple of weeks as I have time to write! Come join me on an adventurous tale about romance, magic, terrifying villagers, underworld monsters, and everyone's favorite D&D 'disaster vampire.'
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 89





	1. Prolegomenon

**Chapter 1: Prolegomenon**

She stayed low, pressed into the dirt. The forests of this region were thick and the terrain uneven but Lyric knew that the well-spaced trunks and sparse underbrush would make her easily detectable to the senses of clever enough prey. And he was clever, of that she was certain. The wide leaves of a deep-shade gunnera gave her cover as she stalked through a copse of pines but the stealth was short-lived and she thought she heard a few soft footfalls just beyond the break. She stopped to listen. Her ears pitched forward; their points tucked upwards all the while still giving little twitches of anticipation. She had been hunting in the witching-hour shadows for over an hour with no sight of him and she was beginning to feel the acute frustration. For a man who had spent most of his life in the streets of a bustling city, Astarion seemed to know a great deal about remaining unseen even in the wilder places of the world.

She had debated whether or not to go to him tonight, despite the allure of his invitation. At first, it had seemed like a foolish venture; an ill-conceived follow-through to an evening of celebratory drinking and flirting. Definitely not a tryst to actually be carried out in the depths of night, far from camp. And yet, here she was; traversing through the backwoods, over hill and dale, still contemplating what she might say to or do with the aloof rogue once she did find him. It was a strange head-space to be in for her. Lyric didn’t actually even care for men all that much and she certainly wasn’t keen on elven men. She’d had quite enough of their guile and covert malice in her youth. The flicker of memory alone brought her hand up to her chest to unconsciously press at old wounds. So, she wondered then, why did this particular high elf intrigue her so much?

What she couldn’t get past was how utterly aggravating he could be at times, and yet it always seemed intentional. As if he knew how to highlight the worst aspects of his personality at any given moment so as to inspire the utmost irritation. Quick with an insult or a threat veiled behind suggestion and innuendo, Astarion went to great lengths to present himself as a kind of barely-tamed wolf pulled taut to the end of his chain. All that he left to question then was precisely how much one wanted to trust the strength of the collar or the integrity of the links. But even then, his actions remained confusingly incongruous with his words or his tone. The things that he whispered in confidence to her were gentle and sincere and his touch, though fleeting, was tender. When it all came down to it, he always stepped up as soon as she needed him and he had never so much as once called attention to it. Quite the opposite, really.

The sound of footsteps did not resume and it caused her to sigh. She had hoped that he might make a quiet entrance or, if nothing else, call her name. He was the one, after all, who had named her. Well, in a sense he had. She chuckled at the recent memory. Her real name was Témalíre; an old elven appellation related to ‘song-making.’ But when he had intuitively sensed her discomfort with the word after their initial meeting, he had simply called her Lyric. Whether it had been because of the Illithid tadpole or not, there was no snide contempt, no mockery; just an immediate shift in his demeanor and a reassuring nod when he said it again to introduce her later. And, of all things, it had stuck. Lyric was the only name anyone else in camp now knew her by; a development which, for a variety of reasons, she found herself oddly grateful.

Her ears ticked again. This time, something was clearly moving through the treeline and she brought her head up to gauge the distance. There was also water nearby, she could smell the algae and wet clays but she heard nothing else to indicate a river. Lyric smoothed a bit of auburn-brown hair back over her ear and tugged the edge of her tunic up reflexively to cover the small whorl of blue tattoo ink visible just below her collarbone. Small, useless, habits that soothed her in stressful times and which she didn’t even notice anymore. Rather, she was fixated on a large overbearing tree that loomed in the distance. It was equally ominous and intriguing; black against the midnight-blue gloom as if stamped on starless wax. The closer she got, the more she could tell that there was something important about this particular tree but Lyric was then rather suddenly taken aback at the feeling of calm relief that prickled through her limbs when she approached. For a moment, she questioned the validity of such an uncharacteristic response on her part -- it was just a tree after all -- before she realized that the sensation was not coming from her…but from him.

With his usual aplomb, Astarion stepped out from behind the gnarled trunk. 

“There you are.” He quipped. “I’ve been waiting.”

It was all she could do not to huff and roll her eyes. He knew just as well as she did that they’d been artfully avoiding each other until the raucous sounds of the camp had finally faded into a distant lull and a smattering of snores. But her reply simply played along with him. 

“Oh, so sorry. Seems I got a bit lost.”

A ranger. Lost in the woods. He returned a coy smile.

“Well, then.” His voice was very nearly a purr; heavy with intent. “It’s a good thing I found you. Or you might have been wandering around by yourself in the dark all night.”

She enjoyed his typical casual banter, truly, but there was something else on Lyric’s mind at that moment. And now that they were alone…

“Astarion? Why did you…why are you…doing this?”

He feigned incredulity. “I thought that was obvious.” But then his brow pinched and the corners of his mouth became stiff. “Or do you mean, why would I pursue one such as yourself? A fantastically obstinate woman who has no sense of fun, an avoidance of all things festive, and about as much interest in the men of her own kind as she does in a hangnail.”

Lyric considered growling at him, but then he continued much more evenly. “This isn’t a conquest, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It isn’t?” She shot back.

“No, lovely.” He sighed. “It’s that I happen to know a thing or two about scars.”

They stared at each other for a long time. He appeared poised and detached; and she was everything but. Why would he say such a thing? Lyric once again reconsidered her decision to remain standing there but the more she thought about it, thought about what he had just said, the less inclined she was to go anywhere else. He didn’t know her story, so to speak; seeing as she’d never told him, but he seemed to understand it. Instinctively she would say, or maybe it was psychically. Perhaps he saw sentiments in her he recognized? Or was it something else? She shifted on her feet as he continued to study her reactions. What was it about Astarion that just kept getting under her skin? From the crash of the Nautiloid to the overgrown ruins to the Druid’s Grove, he’d been at her side for only a relatively short while but it felt as if she’d known him forever. It was maddening; worse than distracting. So much so, she almost startled when his fingertips brushed a few dark strands of hair away from her face. She frowned. His expression was unreadable. All at once Astarion had become inaccessible; his posture turned away. 

“I see.” He said quietly. “Don’t worry then. The others don’t have to know.”

“Know what?” Lyric rejoined.

“That you didn’t really want me tonight.”

She actually did growl at him then. She could only imagine that he’d managed to misread her uncertainty; assuming that their restless exchange had been one of unspoken rejection rather than a nervous attempt at trust. Because that’s precisely where she felt she had failed utterly. Lyric had no trust. In anything, or anyone, and he must be able to feel it at least in part through the telepathic connection of the mutual worms in their heads. And it couldn’t help that the vampire spawn himself seemed like the absolute least likely candidate to ever earn such a thing from her. He’d have had a better chance at convincing Lae’zel to dance with a goblin in the moonlight. But in this moment, he was wrong.

She stepped into him easily, nestling her smaller frame against the length of his body even when he momentarily tensed with uncertainty. Lyric brought her hand up to his chin and drew him down. Talking wasn’t helping either of them right now and this was the part she had been honestly looking forward to all night.

His kiss was tentative at first, tasting her with a few delicate laps at her mouth before he deepened it in an all-consuming embrace. She opened for him and he began to drink her; but his thirst, this time, was not for blood and it was shocking in its intensity. His hands went into her hair to let it down from the leather ties she kept it managed with and soon enough she found the courage to pick at his doublet and twist her fingers into the lacing at his side. Lyric couldn’t remember the last time she had allowed a man to touch her like this but when he broke the kiss to nibble affectionately at her neck, she didn’t let him stay there for long. Tilting her head around, she captured his lips again and savored the way he softened and yielded when she wanted to kiss him possessively, as well as the way he could make it sharp when he gave it back.

“I do want you.” She whispered against him when he momentarily pulled away to undo her belt and shoulder straps. “I’ve wanted you since…since I…”

She thought she felt him laugh but still Lyric reveled in the feeling of sliding her fingers through the short silvery hairs at the nape of his neck. She even took the opportunity to map the curve of his jaw with her thumb and to briefly tease along the ridge of his ear with her breath before he returned for another kiss.

“Come to me then.” His voice was deliciously rough and for the first time, she could feel his genuine excitement.

At that, Lyric’s attempts to undress her lover finally began in earnest. Deftly, she took apart the tight threading of his doublet, followed by his looped belt, and the frog-clasp buttons down his chest. When she whined in flustered annoyance at not being able to simply strip it off of him however, he amusedly took pity on her. 

“Patience, my love.” He murmured. “Let me help you.”

But instead of divesting himself of all of his elaborate clothing, as she assumed he would, Lyric observed as Astarion simply shrugged off the outer jacket and then reached out to take hold of the edge of her own tunic. Unfortunately, the fearful gasp that burst out of her when he raised the hem to her waist was completely involuntary. He glanced up to her face and stilled.

“Have I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Have I frightened you?”

“No.”

He drew her attention down to the two white-knuckled fists clinging to his forearms. “You don’t want me to touch you then?”

She did not, however, repeat her prior response. Instead, the younger elf forced herself to breath as she carefully unwound her fingers from the folds in his sleeves. 

“I’m just…not used to this.” She finally answered. “I’m not used to anyone…seeing me.”

“I told you already.” He stated gently. “I know a little something about scars. You keep yours well hidden, that’s true, but I can still see them.”

She offered him a concerned look. “No, you can’t.” 

Astarion remained unfazed. “They’re there in how you move, how your body protects itself despite your better judgements. I know they cause you pain from time to time, and not all of it mortal.”

Lyric could feel his fingertips lightly caressing her waist, still just above the hem of her leggings where he could reach that first bit of exposed skin. “It’s alright. Let me look at you.” He was so quiet she was scarcely sure she had heard him. “Let me see _you_.”

At last, she acquiesced as he pulled the thick cotton material up and over her head; discarding it in the grass once it was free. To her bewilderment, he was immediately fascinated without the hints of disgust or aversion she had honestly expected. The hand at her waist came up to trace the worst of the scars on her torso. The first, and most conspicuous, was a massive line, half an inch wide, that started just beneath her left arm and continued straight across her chest to where it had completely destroyed her left breast. There was nothing there now but the flat of her pectoral muscle and a ridge of thick, roping, flesh faded thoroughly white with age. The second scar, only a little smaller than the first, curved down around her right side from her shoulder blade to her first floating rib. It was lower and much less disfiguring than its counterpart, but still no less horrific for the blow that must have caused it.

He then shifted to the tattoos that adorned the ruined flesh; a pair of symmetrical blue-inked filigrees beautifully woven over the scarred rows. They looked like ivy, or medicinal vines, tapped into her skin to stitch the wounds back together again with vibrant indigo stems and elegant curlicue leaves. She shivered as his hand followed the trailing edge of one vine up along her sternum to the scar across her left side. She had little feeling there anymore but going from the intense sensation of his touch on her abdomen to not but mild pressure higher up was surprisingly unmooring. When he leaned in to claim another kiss, Lyric wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close.

Astarion made agile work of the rest of her clothes all the while he plundered her mouth but just as soon as she was completely bared to him, the benign discontent returned.

“You’re still dressed.” She complained, pulling at the hem of his shirt.

“Well, why haven’t you done anything about that?” He teased in return. When he bent to nibble suggestively at her neck she sniffed indignantly and sternly peeled the brown under-vest and white shirt from his shoulders to add it to their growing pile. He almost giggled at the contented mumble that followed as she began to run her hands appreciatively over his chest. In truth, Lyric simply adored smooth, clean, skin and Astarion’s pale austerity perfectly appealed to her base carnal desires. She also couldn’t help but take that moment to examine the two slightly bruised indentations at the side of his neck; pressing lightly at the marks with her forefinger. 

“Don’t worry.” He breathed into open-mouthed kisses across the top of her shoulder. “I would never leave such insults on you, lovely.”

Lyric did smile then; hidden in the crook of his neck, so he could not see the effect his diminutives might have.

“You can if you want to, though.” She nipped into his ear. “I don’t mind if you want to…taste again.”

A tense force moved through him; a strain of aggression quickly suppressed.

“Should I?” She could feel his voice emanating from somewhere beneath her chin. “May I? Have you entirely?”

Suddenly, her feet left the ground and Lyric was lifted up until she felt her lover drop to his knees; bringing the both of them down to the mosses below. She had no doubt that she might have fallen if not for the strong arms that carefully set her onto her back. Disconcertingly though, he did not cover her, despite the fact that she tried to pull him flush to her body as they descended together. Instead, he rocked back on his heels and with an appraising sweep of hooded eyes, began to massage her calves before moving on to the inside of her thighs.

“Magnificent.” He sighed. 

“You’re lying.” She said, but there was no antagonism in her tone.

His mouth curved into a smirk. “Am I? Given how clearly you’ve felt my thoughts before, I think you’d know if that was true.”

Lyric squirmed. He was being deceptive somehow even if she didn’t think him outright false. It was only adding to her questions and anxieties about his motives but that wasn’t what she had come for tonight. Right now, she was still a little heady from celebratory wine and wanted nothing more than to drown her endless ruminations in heat and friction. To silence that ever-present voice in her head that was always fretting, criticizing, and accusing. All she wanted was to feel and to forget, and he was being oddly uncooperative about it.

“Astarion? Come here. Please.”

Finally, he went to her; laying against her fully as she beckoned him into her arms. This is what she had craved; his weight pressing her down into the earth, his body solid and sleek under her palms, his mouth insistent at her throat as he held her tightly. When she pitched her hips up into his, he finally moaned and Lyric was happy to delight in the sparks of arousal it sent down her spine. He was splendidly hard and her need for him was becoming just this side of painful.

Admittedly, she had never lain with a vampire before and was somewhat amazed at the strength of his ardor. She’d expected him to be cooler to the touch and perhaps more mechanical than enthusiastic but his passion only grew more intense as she held him. In response, Astarion seemed intent on devouring her, one way or the other. Better situated, he leaned down to lave his tongue down her right side and over the unmarred breast he could tease to attention there. But he also appeared content to let her explore him in whatever way she liked. When her hands then found a peculiar raised texture along his back, where she had expected only more smooth skin, he paused and raised his head to meet her thoughtful gaze. 

“What’s this?” Lyric passed her fingertips over the furrow again.

“Scars.” He replied. “Just like I said.”

She thought she should ask him something more about this new revelation but during her quest to chart the lines beneath her hands he had apparently finally unclothed and thrown his pants onto the embankment. This she only noticed when he suddenly pushed her thighs wide apart and she could feel him move to press himself at her entrance. The slight gasp he earned in response momentarily stopped him and Lyric smiled as she felt her lover hold his position over top of her while he waited for the welcome into her body. Acknowledging his restraint, she leaned up to capture his lips for a slow, sensuous, kiss. She then tipped her hips, allowing the head of his cock to slip inside her, while still preventing him from lunging forward with a hand against his waist. He whined into her mouth as she teased him this way; permitting only small, incremental, movements as he tried to slide deeper all the while she nipped and licked through his kisses. But Astarion was not the type of man to be held at bay for very long and no matter how intransigent his bedmate insisted on being, he was not willing to wait much longer.

Pinning the wild elf to the forest floor, he pushed up to finish their connection with a firm but agonizingly unhurried thrust; sinking into her body inch by inch until he was able to settle fully inside of her. Lyric stifled her pleasured shout against his shoulder and felt a shudder pass through him as she did. Deep in her subconscious, somewhere along their weak telepathic link, she had the sense that it had been a very long time since he had experienced this kind of arousal and an even longer span since he had actually felt the tight heat of a willing lover beneath him and around him. He was doing everything he could not to show it but her lover was already unraveling; each added caress threatening to undo him. With careful hands sifting through the curly grey locks starting to fall over his face, she lured him in for a breathless kiss and then flexed her internal muscles to squeeze his length.

Astarion cried out faintly as his entire body tensed in reflex but he did not thrust deeper even though she could tell he desperately wanted to. The gesture was so unexpectedly erotic and she softened her body beneath him as a way to communicate her acceptance. It was all still rather unusual. He was bigger than she’d anticipated, and impossibly hard, but he felt so good fit as he was against her; his touch and presence everywhere. The sounds of his breathing were harsh in her ear and she reveled at the insistent pulse of his excitement deep at her core. If nothing else, he definitely knew what he was doing. 

The first time he moved, Lyric couldn’t help but clutch at his back; certain that her nails would be scraping new red lines into the pattern she had discovered there. But Astarion did not react as if she had. Rather, he simply began to move inside her with a gently rocking, almost loving, rhythm. He was so astonishingly tender it caught the ranger off-guard. He suckled at her neck and then returned to her mouth for wistful, sultry, kisses all the while he kept up the sensual pace. She knew he needed something, needed this, but the why remained out of reach. She sighed. Her own arms came up around him even as she was still trying to get her bearings. Lyric had not felt a man inside of her like this for many years and now it was as if they were beginning to fuse. She had set out for an encounter as close to mindless sex as she could manage but this was subtly transforming into something else. The beauty of the moment was unasked for, and she worried, unearned.

“Astarion…” She choked out, barely able to breath. “What are you doing?”

His responsive laugh was stolen by an amorous moan. “What does it feel like I’m doing, my love?” He punctuated the question with a harder thrust before he gentled again.

Lyric traced the contour of his ear with her tongue, making him tremble slightly behind closed eyelids. She kissed her way down his neck and up to his jaw, digging her nails into the back of his neck possessively when her actions caused his rhythm to stutter. She even took the moment to cast her eyes down his body; the blue light of the overhanging moon highlighting the silhouette of his back as he moved until she could see where he was cradled in her hips. 

“It feels like you want something.” She replied, a groan catching in her throat as he used his arms around her back to pull her further beneath him.

“Obviously.” He finally managed to strain out through clenched teeth.

But Lyric knew better. He was plying her with a lover’s humor; implying what he wanted without having to actually admit to it. Hiding his real wants and desires beneath the veneer of a noble gentleman and couching his requests in the plausible deniability of ambiguous replies. To wit, she knew he wanted to come but that wasn’t what was going to truly sate him.

With as much of a lustful cry as she could conjure up, Lyric thrashed under him, tossing her head from side to side, until Astarion was forced to grapple her back down or be unseated. He needn’t have been too worried however, as she was quickly learning how to struggle with him while also not throwing off his rhythm. The effect was immediate and she could hear the need provoked in his snarled response. His thrusts came faster and harder, shaking her entire body at the onslaught. His hand went into the hair at the back of her head to pull it taut and keep her trapped. Lyric whimpered from the frenzy and tried to grasp onto his neck to urge him onward. Her own passion was mounting and if he kept taking her this way, she’d soon peak whether he was ready for it or not. She dug her nails into his arms to spur him. With her body she could calm his hunger, but with her blood she could satisfy his thirst. Goading him into it wouldn’t take much more than…

The woods shook with the force of her scream; arching under her lover as his teeth sunk into her throat and his cock penetrated into her depths. Forced to take him in everywhere, she felt full and drained simultaneously as he gave as much as he took. But his moan at both feeding from her and fucking her was a sound of pure longing, of richly unclouded desire, and it was the last bit of encouragement she needed to let go. Panting and shivering around him she finally came; begging him not to stop as her body contracted and then shattered.

In a haze, Lyric felt him withdraw from her neck with a hiss. She was more than a little dizzy and it was all she could do to press damp palms to his torso as he rose up slightly and then thrust harder than she thought she could take. She sobbed when he did it again, and was near to breaking when she witnessed a sight she would not soon forget. 

Astarion stared down at her; his eyes alight from the inside with an eerie, golden, glow. But then, his face contorted, as if in pain. He arched over her and with a furious, almost mournful, wail, she felt him come. Pulsing heat, followed by slickened ease as he thrust twice more and then stilled. It was a marvelous sight and an even more spectacular sensation as he spent himself in cresting waves of ecstasy that eventually wrung him out and left him completely wrecked.

Although, that’s what concerned her. He seemed _so_ surprised. Barely holding himself up and trying not to simply collapse, Lyric watched as her lover, wide-eyed, stared down at her with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. As if he had been expecting something at the climax of their union but certainly not whatever had just happened. He trembled with the effort, utterly speechless, and she reached up to caress his cheek as she unwound her legs from his. 

“Are you…alright?” She whispered.

“I….” Was all he managed to answer her with before he shuddered again and gently freed her from him. When he slid to the ground at her side and rolled onto his back, Lyric automatically turned to prop herself up on his chest. His arms came back up around her immediately, so in that she knew he was at least mostly still with her. Though she had cause for her worry. The reverberations across their tadpole link were chaotic and unfocused. She saw flashes of faces and opulent rooms she didn’t recognize, and a long, silver, blade that seemed to hover in midair while someone in the shadows recited awful, guttural, words. She sensed pain, remorse, and something else; like a glimmer of hope but hardly registered. Astarion was at war with something in himself and this time it wasn’t the prospect of ceremorphosis. Lyric almost began to feel guilty. She hadn’t meant to overwhelm him.

The tumult cleared almost as quickly as it had come upon them and he grasped her chin to turn her face back up to him. “I’m fine, lovely. Perfectly fine.”

“What was all that?”

“Nothing. Just some old thoughts. And a few things I don’t need anymore.”

She scowled. “Now you _are_ lying.”

He only laughed. “Yes, perhaps. But not all scars are just skin-deep, are they?”

She pondered that phrase for quite a while, even when he encouraged her to sleep for a few hours, and then for many nights afterwards.


	2. Hapax Legomena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, and some new developments....

**Chapter 2: Hapax Legomena**

Lyric came awake abruptly. It might have been an unexpected movement or some other indication of danger, she wasn’t sure. It was morning though, that much was clear. Warm, wide, beams of sunshine broke through the canopy and spattered the ground around her with the rising scent of heated petrichor. It was a grassy, herbal, smell that usually followed rain but given the perpetual moisture of the thick mosses carpeting this forest, a little flash of daylight on the rocks seemed to have a similar effect. She was alone, however. The space next to her where he had lain was empty. The ranger immediately perked her ears and looked around.

Thankfully, he hadn’t gone far.

Astarion stood, basking in the sun, not more than a few meters away. He’d donned his pants again but nothing else and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the feel of the unobstructed light on his face. He had his back to her, breathing slowly and meditatively in a bright halo of daybreak. Her lover also seemed far more relaxed than he ever had before but Lyric’s eyes were immediately drawn away from his supplicating posture to the deep scars she could now clearly see etched into his shoulders and down the curve of his spine.

She couldn’t help but grimace. Four concentric circles hatched with radial lines made it obvious that these scars had been inflicted with cold, calculated, deliberation. These were not the wounds of blind rage as hers had been, these were the wounds of malice; of a contempt that ran deeper than flesh. And beneath it she could almost see the fissures and cracks that permeated his soul as a result of them; spreading out from where he had been cut to suggest the form of a man in shattered pieces only barely held together by a thin façade of pale skin. She imagined that sometimes those broken pieces could rub together inside of him and cause pain or sometimes maybe they just disintegrated and left holes too large to fill. Lyric then tilted her head with quiet concern. The scars seemed to say something. Not just what they implied in the story of their making but, perhaps, quite literally. 

“Astarion? Is that…?”

“It’s a poem.” He replied immediately, obviously aware that she had been awake for several minutes. “A gift from my old master, Cazador. He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas. He composed, and carved, that one over the course of a night. He made a lot of revisions as he went.”

His sudden and open honesty surprised her. Astarion had, up until this point, said very little when it came to his own history, usually opting for vague asides or casual mentions without much in the way of context. For him to so plainly state an answer to her probing questions was unlike him.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know.” He breathed. There it was: the avoidance and irritation making its way back into his voice. “I didn’t ask for a reading.”

She contemplated him for a moment. “May I touch it?”

He finally turned his face from the sun to glance down at her. Quirking an eyebrow, he regarded her with a measure of amused exasperation. “I think you’ve done quite enough of that already, don’t you think? And speaking of, I’m rather surprised you’re awake this early. You sleep light. I’d think you’d be exhausted after last night.”

How deftly he changed the subject when unease set in. But it was fine. She could always ask him again later when he was in a better mood… or drunk. Because right now, Lyric had other ideas. She smiled wanly; finding his unspoken appraisal of her nakedness to be quite charming despite the fact that he was trying to appear indifferent and otherwise unaffected.

“Perhaps I would be if you hadn’t insisted on being so careful.”

He smiled in return. “I was holding back, it’s true. I didn’t want to go…too far.”

“Well, you already are ‘too far.’” She teased, waving an indignant gesture at the current distance between them. “Come back here.”

Astarion, however, crossed his arms and didn’t move. “What do I get if I do?”

“What do you think?”

He chuckled at her narrowed eyes and pinched expression. “I _think_ we should be getting back to camp soon. We’ve been gone a long time and I’m sure Wyll is very worried about you by now.”

“Wyll isn’t even up yet.” She tossed back. “None of them are and they won’t be for at least an hour. Well, Gale, maybe. But he’ll be reading.”

“Lyric.” He finally sighed, likely about to add something to the effect that they’d had their fun and should now be getting on with more pressing business. More exasperation. More avoidance.

But this time, she decided not to let him get away with it. “What? Afraid I’ll bite you?”

Her lover laughed out loud; a sharp, haughty, sound in the quiet grove. “As the spirit takes you, my dear. I’m sure I deserve it if you find yourself so inclined.”

She raised her forefinger in a come-hither motion, hardening her expression against any more potential protests. Thankfully, this time he simply uncrossed his arms and came to kneel down beside her without further complaint. When her arms snaked up around his neck, he allowed her to pull him back to the ground where he was rewarded with a series of feather-light kisses to his neck and shoulder. Hardly the promised bite but tantalizing none-the-less. As she then began to ply his mouth for more, Astarion brought one hand up to smoothly trace the deep scar scored across her left side. 

“This, I gather,” He pulled back slightly. “Was somewhat less imaginative than mine.”

She dropped back onto the mosses and stared up at him; his thumb still dragging along the numbed edges of the old wound. She didn’t like to talk about her scars but he’d been so forthcoming about his own it felt uncharitable not to respond in kind.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call it a poem.” Lyric squirmed beneath his touch but didn’t push him away. He then pressed his fingertips down onto the rise of chest muscle, right into the depression where her left breast should have been. 

“No.” He replied. “But I would say that it was just as intentional. A strike such as this did not come upon you by accident, did it? Someone knew exactly what they were doing.”

Seeking a bit of respite and comfort, she pressed against his body and without hesitation, he leaned into her to give it. But neither his touch nor his question relented. 

“Tell me.” He breathed quietly into her hair. “An old friend? A lover?”

“I supposed you could have called him that.” She said. “Even if he was the sort of man who never had any intention of loving and certainly none of ever freeing me.”

“Ah, a betrothed then?”

She sighed; grateful that he still held her even if she’d have been loathed to admit it. She liked the feel of him against her. His skin was softer and warmer than she had thought it would be. For some reason, she had previously imagined he would feel like stone; all cold and heavy. That he would crush her down like a great weight and deliver her into the blackness lingering just beyond her conscious mind. But instead, he was solid but pliable; his body strong but yielding and his touch delicate, responsive, even, dare she think it, sentimental. He felt almost…. alive.

It made her answer easier, but not by much.

“His name was Olivet Ingen Ailil. Though I really shouldn’t say ‘was.’ Still is, as far as I know. Scion of House Argentaamn and privateer of the Sea of Swords.”

“Hmmm, a pirate, you say?”

She actually chuckled a little. “No, Astarion. Not a pirate. A privateer. His family owned an entire fleet of cutter ships that could run cargo between Delimbiyr Vale and Amn to the Moonshaes in half the time.”

“Same difference, you know? Pirate, privateer. I dealt with plenty of them in the magistrate back in the day. Always arguing about who had what right to what route. They’d have taken patents out on every direction of the wind if someone let them.”

“Well, you’re not wrong, I suppose.” Her face fell and it did not go unnoticed that her tone had an edge to it. “Whatever he was or wasn’t though, he’s the cruelest man I’ve ever known. He just had this way of…”

She startled out of the descent into her morose reverie then when she felt her lover’s mouth at the trailing edge of the scar, his tongue delving into the line as it traversed her ribs. But not only did he lavish tender attention to the mark, he spoke softly to her heart through it. 

“Let me guess. He would take what he wanted. Ensure that no man would ever look upon you with the heat of desire ever again. Would recoil in horror even? That he would mark you as his own for all time. Leave you with only the scraps you could salvage afterwards. Did I miss anything?”

Tears stung the corners of her eyes; not so much in the echoes of his words but in the ease with which he mimicked the concealed hate of their intended meaning, all the while his lips tasted her skin with open admiration and doting reverence. It was a dichotomy that was hard to parse and Lyric was unsure whether he meant for her to feel consoled or unnerved. But Astarion evidently felt no revulsion for the scars he kissed and lapped, nor did he seem at all averse to the outlines they created. When she felt his hand then slip over her abdomen and down to the soft mound between her thighs, she choked back a small noise of embarrassment.

His finger expertly slid between her folds and he began to tease her with short, tight, circles against the most sensitive place at her apex. As he did so, his mouth continued to explore her chest with a soft purr. The position necessary to pull off such attentions however, caused him to angle partially over top of her and Lyric moaned appreciatively when she felt him press into her leg. His pants had slipped low onto his hips and she took the chance to slide her fingers beneath the waistband and dig her nails into his backside. When she heard him huff benignly in response, she used the added advantage to pull him closer.

“I…I didn’t know…vampires could…” She lost her train of thought momentarily when she felt the pad of a finger dip down into her. “…could get excited.”

Lyric felt Astarion smile into her collarbone as he shifted to pay his respects to the right-side scar. “Oh, we certainly can.” He replied, in all ways a heated whisper. “Scent, touch, taste, all heightened beyond what most mortals expect. But _this_ is…something new. I haven’t felt a need this strong in a very long time.”

She wanted him to say more but the dexterous movements of his hand were making it increasingly difficult for her to form words. He was now keeping his thumb pressed into the bud just above her entrance and using two fingers to slide shallowly into her; spreading the resulting wetness all around as he did. She groaned and arched, not quite ready to completely give up just yet. “How…mmmhm…how is it new?”

“It aches.” He answered, and she shivered. “I want to be close to you. I need to be inside of you. I hunger for blood but I crave this even more. And when I have you, it becomes instinctual. Like some forgotten nature has awakened and calls to me. Calls me to you.”

Lyric was too far gone to sense whether or not he was simply weaving a lustful tale for her or if there was some deep truth to what he said. She wanted to tell him that she had felt something similar; a kind of visceral desire that begged her body to open to him, to lay beneath him, and to accept him in the throes of climax. For an anxious moment, she really, really, hoped that it didn’t have something to do with the tadpoles in their heads. In all honesty, she had absolutely no idea how Illithids mated beyond some such thing with pools and probably spawning or another equally disturbing prospect. But if there was anything else that typically led up to that point, it was a complete mystery. She worried that it would be a sad irony for the both of them if this turned out to be some kind of reflexive drive to pair brought on by the cycles of an immature Mind Flayer. Ultimately, she doubted it though. Perhaps the tadpoles had something to do with all this, but she knew the winding knot of affection, passion, and yearning she felt for the finicky, intractable elf was almost certainly a puzzle of her own making.

He pressed harder, causing her to snarl at him. When she heard his gentle laugh next to her ear, Lyric retaliated by curling her hand around to the front of his body. Undoing the buttons at the top of his pants, it was then a quick and easy turn of her wrist to grasp him and stroke the impressive erection she found there. Finally, he moaned. It was a broken, almost feral, sound, and the younger elf delighted in the feel of the involuntary thrust that followed her touch. The night before, back at the camp, she had made him say ‘please’ in his request for her love. At the time, Lyric didn’t think she’d ever hear Astarion sound any more seductive than he had then. She now knew she was very, very, wrong.

He was hot and eager against her palm, and his mouth was now nearly gnawing at her ear. Yet he didn’t ask for more or make any move to break their mutual caress. In fact, Lyric began to wonder if he intended to bring her off just like this and then take his own pleasure in her hand. But while that had a certain appeal she couldn’t deny, she didn’t know when the next opportunity like this would arise. She wanted to have all of him now, in case she might never have him again.

Astarion mumbled something incoherent as his lover turned and roughly pushed his pants down his body, using her flexibility and her toes to ensure that the garment came all the way off to end up back in a heap in the grass. Her hands then went into his hair to pull him up to face her. 

“Eager, aren’t you?” His tone was meant to be teasing but it just came out as breathlessly wanton. 

“Fuck me.” She growled into his mouth. “Stop being unruly and just fuck me.” 

“With pleasure.”

He finally took his hand away but she was not long left empty. Her lover was on her in an instant, spreading her thighs beneath insistent hands, and sliding his cock into her with a single, firm, motion of his hips. Lyric cried out and bucked against him; thoroughly enjoying the sensation of joining with him again. He filled her so perfectly; the ideal stretch and proportions that she didn’t realize she needed. And when he moved, she could feel every bit of each hard, deep, thrust as he took her with unmatched ardor for the second time. His rhythm was immediately carnal but not punishing, however, and she had the sense that he was still holding back.

And that just wouldn’t do.

Throwing every ounce of her strength into the movement, Lyric pushed up from the forest floor and threw him over; rolling them both across the mossy embankment until he was flat on his back in a tussock with her sitting on top of him. With a grin, Lyric realized she had even managed to pull off the maneuver without unseating him, though Astarion was now looking up at her with an expression that was a little bit shocked and a little more concerned. 

Happily, she splayed her hands out against his chest, testing his stability for her own leverage. She then began to move at her own pace; rising up and then sliding back down onto him with increasing fervor. It was wonderful to watch his face as she did so; the sweet pain of intense, heightening, pleasure causing his brow to crease and his eyes to darken. He then gripped her hips harshly to keep her going, though she would have anyway, driving upwards every time she came back to him. Lyric felt she could scream with the wonder of it all and rode him with pure joy for as long as she could.

But Astarion was not the type to stay down long. She could feel his thrusts becoming more urgent and with the way his body had begun to curve towards her, Lyric knew he was quickly approaching a brutally mind-numbing orgasm. He still seemed somewhat unprepared for it though. As if he expected the tactile arousal to ease off, to plateau at some point, and give him back the command of his faculties. But when it didn’t, he was left shaking and sobbing; his entire body rigid as he began the ascent into bliss. Lyric, on the other hand, had one more ploy she had yet to try. Allowing him to control her movements astride him with his hands on her hips, and to continue the hard, full, thrusts clearly bringing him closer to the end, she reached up to thread her fingers into the hair at the back of his head. Soft, silvery, locks passed easily through her grasp until she had enough of them for what she wanted. With a quick snap, she wrenched his head back and then straight-out bit him, right on the side of his neck.

The world suddenly went awash with brown and green blotting and the sky turned over twice before Lyric found herself face-down on the ground, her knees kicked apart, and her lover mounting her swiftly from behind. She’d barely had enough time to take a breath before he slid back into her body and thrust, hard and fast. She could feel one of his hands at the back of her neck, keeping her down, while the other dug into her hip to hold her steady for his reckless abandon. He pounded into her, but his cry of desperation told her that he could no longer quite control it.

“Astarion!”

It only incited him further, but the feel of him, even lost as he was inside her, was ecstasy. She let him use her as he needed, adjusting the way she moved back on him just slightly so that he would reach the right places to finish her alongside him. Everywhere she felt tense and tight, the flood of sensations higher and more severe than before. Lyric relaxed into the onslaught and moments later, felt her own climax come crashing down. With a ferocious howl, the raging young elf went wild; thrashing against her lover and fighting his hold as pleasure soared through her body. Undeterred, Astarion took it all in stride and with a fierce shout, pinned his untamable mate under him. She twisted but he held her by the nape of the neck and growled in her ear.

“Be still.” He hissed. “Be still and take…take what I give you. Take all of me. Feel me inside you. And remember…” He paused to stifle a groan. “Remember that only you could do this to me.”

Lyric was suddenly forced to catch and hold her breath as he arched over her back, thrust madly several times, and then pulsed; his breathing stuttering to an abrupt stop. Then, with an utterly brazen cry of release, he came. It was glorious. She could feel him spilling himself deep inside her; thrumming beat after beat as his seed poured out of him and he gripped her body with white-knuckled anguish. To her unexpected satisfaction, Lyric also took note that Astarion was coming in a way particularly natural, and normal, to male elves. He released himself in rolling surges of intoxicated rapture rather than all at once in a single peak. This meant that his instincts were to keep his lover held close and pacified as each wave brought a brief round of renewed thrusts which spent every last remnant of his essence as deep as he could.

Contented, Lyric settled into his embrace to allow Astarion to completely finish in his own time. There were three distinct crests of orgasm that she could recall receiving from him, even when he managed to turn them both on their sides so that he might ride out the last of it without suffocating her. Finally, quite a few minutes later, he relaxed over her back, the all-consuming fire at last quenched. 

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

Lyric carefully rolled over to see him when he pushed back and let go of her.

Astarion looked pensive, however. Clearly, he too was beginning to think more of their encounter than just one night of ill-conceived passion and contact on the road to ruin. And it wasn’t sitting well with him. Within seconds he went from contemplative to uneasy, to what she would almost call troubled. Lyric brought her hand up to caress his cheek and even leaned in for a gentle kiss, which he responded to in kind.

“What is it?”

“It…it really wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

“So I get that impression. Do you want to talk about it? Talk about what’s bothering you?”

“No.” He said flatly. “I don’t. Not now…I…” He sat up and quickly surveyed the terrain in order to locate all of his clothes. When he got up and began to dress, Lyric didn’t stop him. She was tempted to press him but even the silence of the tadpoles in that moment seemed to indicate he was not ready to give voice to it yet. To whatever it was that was agitating him. 

“Astarion?”

He turned, fixing his doublet back into fastidious order. “It’s alright, lovely. I promise. I just need some time to…process this a little. I think. I’ll see you back at camp. Please don’t be long.”

She watched him gather his affects and go; eyes downcast, the corners of his mouth distressed, his shoulders hunched and stiff. Had something else come to him in his moments of vulnerability? Some vision or some memory she couldn’t yet fathom? Or was it that she had truly not understood the nature of vampires and their thralls, and Astarion only meant to protect her from some terrifying truth already encroaching on their temporary sphere of warmth and love?

Lyric sighed and began to hunt for her own clothing.

Men were so confusing.


	3. Mnemosynus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has turned into a story in my head. So, let's see what happens as our merry band of adventurers heads off toward the Temple of Selûne and gets waylaid by...a village.

**Chapter 3: Mnemosynus**

The group had been trudging on in silence for most of the morning. Except for Gale, who muttered random nonsense to himself every time they happened to pass a plant of suitably complex coloration or sometimes nothing more than a curiously-shaped rock. And Wyll, who just looked morose. But Lyric assumed that likely had more to do with the hangover he had complained about earlier than anything else. Thoughtfully, she glanced over to Astarion, who, for his part, remained malignantly cheerful in his typical way; annoying Shadowheart with the occasional pithy remark and avoiding Lae’zel by keeping to the back of the troupe. In the moment, everything seemed rather surprisingly…mundane, despite all that had transpired the night before. No hint, aside, or even casual acknowledgement from anyone that she had just become the lover of none other than the elven vampire spawn in their midst.

That is, until…

“So.” The low, raspy, voice of her Githyanki companion sidled up to her right. “You finally spent the night with Astarion then.”

Lyric almost startled right out of her pensive contemplation, though honestly, she had been anticipating the inquiry. Even, one might say, hoping for it. It was better after all, in her mind, to go from imagining what everyone must be thinking of her to being able to implicitly ask about it. 

“Hmm? Oh, I…yes. Why?”

“Why do you think?” Lae’zel answered, her eyes narrowed and canted towards the shorter woman. “Was he any good?”

Lyric almost laughed out loud right there in the middle of the road. Lae’zel generally didn’t mince her words and if she wanted to know something, she typically just asked outright no matter how it came across. But the question was so uncharacteristic of her interests (or what Lyric had assumed were her interests) that the ranger wasn’t sure if she was asking after her enjoyment of the previous night or was considering a proposition of her own. 

“He was fine.”

“That’s it?” The Githyanki warrior was clearly nonplussed.

It was now Lyric’s turn to look askance at her companion. “Why do you want to know?”

Lae’zel huffed irritably. “Because I cannot abide useless men. Did he get it done or not?”

If this was Lae’zel’s version of “girl talk,” it was very brusque and to the point. Lyric sighed and smoothed an errant bit of hair back into the ties behind her ears, realizing only slightly too late that the gesture revealed the obviously bite-shaped bruise near her shoulder. With a shift and a cough, she tugged the collar of her under-tunic back over it.

“He was exactly what I wanted him to be.” She finally replied. 

“Still he did not manage to keep his teeth off of your neck.”

“I offered. He accepted. I found it all to be quite…satisfying, if you must know.”

Lae’zel actually smiled slightly at her response. “I see. Was he skilled then or just incidentally lucky?”

At that, Lyric actually turned, her mouth slightly agape, to regard the patiently expectant look of the other woman. “He…I…. hnnng… you know what? Fine. He was amazing. Exquisite, even. Hard, hot, rough when he needed to be, _and_ he knew exactly when and where to put his mouth to good use. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve been fucked that thoroughly or that good in a blackbird’s age and as soon as I’m not slogging through the backwoods of who-knows-where for gods-know-what killing everything in my way, I’m going to strip that fancy-ass surcoat right back off of him and do it again.”

Lae’zel stared back at her for a second before nodding approvingly. “See? That wasn’t so difficult now was it?”

“Did I answer your question?” The elf bit out in response.

“Perfectly. Now. Do you share?”

“……what?”

The Githyanki rolled her jaw and then her eyes, as if her question was the most normal and obvious thing in the world but her conversant was just being dense. “Now that you have claimed him, how do you share him? It’s proper to approach the Dominant first, every Gith knows this.”

“That’s…. not…. really…. I mean…that’s not how…wait, you’re interested in Astarion?”

“A strong fighter with good instincts, a male pleasing to the eye; who is also adept in physical pleasures, is a worthy choice. I would, of course, forbid him from speaking for the entirety of any such liaison and he must restrain his teeth in my presence but other than that, I have no immediate complaints. If he has stamina enough, that is.”

Now Lyric was intensely curious. “Is this a Gith thing? I mean, is that how it works for you…. you share?”

Lae’zel wrinkled the top of her nose at the question but answered regardless. “Our crèche is our bond and crèche-mates share all that we possess with one another. Information, skills, food, time, and bedmates. There is nothing of ours that is not also our sibling’s.”

“Uh huh.” Lyric nodded, her ears flat with mild concern. “Fits a certain logic, I suppose. But…I’m not entirely sure Astarion would agree to that.” She paused and chewed her lip. “I’m not entirely sure I’d _want_ him to agree to that.”

The Githyanki carried on completely unaffected. “Pose the question then. I’m sure his response will be most revealing.”

Lyric chuckled. “Oh, of that I have no doubt, Lae’zel. No doubt whatsoever.”

“Good.” The spry warrior agreed and picked up her pace. “Let us find the path to these towers then, if such a task yet lies before us.”

The ranger watched as the warrior’s back moved off ahead of the group, scouting along the side of the road for any immediate dangers. Momentarily flustered, she glanced behind her to where Astarion was engaged in travelling banter with Gale. Blessedly, it didn’t seem as if he’d overheard their conversation but Lyric knew better than to assume that her lover’s outward mannerisms were any indication of what he was actually thinking about. Astarion was as proficient in appearances for manipulation’s sake as he was in slitting the throats of the unprepared. It all came quite disturbingly natural to him. For all she knew, he’d heard every word and there would be a rather odd conversation about ‘group dynamics’ in their near future. Either way though, this was nothing like how she had expected the proverbial morning-after to go.

Distracted, Lyric continued to drift in and out of her own thoughts. So much that was strange and unfamiliar had filled her recent days. Druids, goblins, tieflings, mind flayers, Gur monster hunters, tied-up gnomes, blighted ruins, and amorous ogres. Which brought them to now as she and a rag-tag group of barely-friends were chasing down yet another incomprehensible lead in an attempt to figure out precisely what kind of magic was holding their tadpole-infested minds at bay. Halsin, of course, had suggested the Moonrise Towers as their next course of action; whatever that was supposed to be. She frowned. Perhaps the Towers were the answer to their troubles or perhaps it was just another puppet-master pulling invisible strings tied to possibilities even further away than this one. All the while their borrowed time was running out.

Lyric felt a gentle hand at her back.

“You only scowl like that when you’re thinking. You should really stop. You’ll be much happier if you do, you know.”

It was Astarion’s voice and Lyric couldn’t help but drop her shoulders and relax her brow at his approach. He always did seem to know how to comfort her at times like these.

“Stop thinking, you mean?” She reached out to briefly touch his hand before looking up at him. 

“Works for me.” He quipped with a sly smile. Ambiguity really was a part of his charm.

“I was just thinking about taking this Underdark road.” She countered. “We’ll reach the Temple of Selûne within the hour and I don’t think we’ll have much trouble finding our way down, it’s just…”

“What fresh hells await us when we get there?” He finished.

“Yes.” She breathed.

“Lyric.” Astarion replied. “I’m sure I don’t have to actually say this but you’re more than capable of facing whatever is down there. And it isn’t as if you’ll be doing it alone. We’ve all got tadpoles in this together after all.”

She stifled a snort. It was Gale who had referred to Astarion as having the ‘moral perseverance of a mayfly,’ and once even in confidence as her own personal ‘disaster vampire,’ but Lyric found his more genuine moments to be quite confessional. Somewhere, buried deep, Astarion believed in better possibilities; he just hadn’t lived them. He was as good, in some ways, as he was ever allowed to be and barring that, he was inclined to stick with what he knew. Hence the inaccessible demeanor, the unassailable arrogance, and the feigned cruelty. There was safety in resentment and animosity but sometimes it cracked, and when it did, it revealed a very different man underneath. A man she was fast becoming begrudgingly fond of.

A memory played in her head. _Scars so often exposed the very things they were meant to protect._

She sighed.

“Besides.” He was saying, turning his face up haughtily to the daylight. “I was getting tired of all this sunshine and fresh air anyway. Nothing like a trip down a dank hole into a slimy abyss to lift one’s spirits.”

“Astarion, you are positively primeval.” *

“Thank you, darling.”

A sudden noise caught their attention and brought up their collective guard. A short distance ahead, Lae’zel had already dropped into a fighter’s stance and was motioning the ranger and rogue forward to her side. She had seen something and called out a warning, but whatever it was must still be far enough in the distance that they had the advantage. Otherwise, the Gith would have charged.

Lyric drew her bow from the strap across her back and gestured for the others to follow behind her as she approached Lae’zel’s position. The Gith had also drawn her blade but was not yet poised to attack as she usually was. Rather, she stood to the side of the road, glowering down at the scene before them. With a quick breath, the ranger stopped short. 

It was a town. Just that; a town. Brown and dusty with use and age, it sported all of the expected accoutrements of a settlement just this side of the river. A tavern up ahead at the end of a short lane, a blacksmith’s forge and leather-tooling porch, a trading outpost and tannery, a shrine to some such deity unrecognizable at this distance, and a few small houses scattered in and about the thick overlay of trees. People, humans mainly, wandered here and there going about their business and took no notice of the approaching band of adventurers over the rise. It was, for all intents and purposes, a normal, everyday, village of which there were thousands just like it throughout this region.

But that was the problem and the very reason why all six of the accompanied troupe stood in tense silence. Lyric and the others had traveled this same road not more than a few days past and there had been no town here. Nothing at all but wilderness actually, between their campsite and the Temple of Selûne a handful of miles beyond. Therefore, it was as if the buildings had sprung up whole out of the ground and the streets grown in with the heather and gorse. Yet, nothing here looked new. It was all a bit ramshackle and wind-eaten with planks broken and beams missing. Evidence of bright paint still clung to a few overhanging signs and shingles but even that was faded and chipped from too long outside in the elements. The people too appeared equally bent. Weather-worn features and sun-wrinkled faces, specks of gray hair on younger heads, and home-spun clothing in simple wool and linen dyed with meadow grasses and beets. It would have been charming if not so completely out of place.

“What deceitful magic is this?” Lae’zel was the first to comment, hissing her words out between clenched teeth.

“Nothing I know of.” Gale answered, motioning vaguely about as he did so. “Wyll?”

“Not anything of my knowledge either, I’m afraid.” He replied. “I mean, I’ve heard of wizards and the like raising their own fortresses up out of the swamps and fields but conjuring a village? Who could do that? And what would be the point?”

“Perhaps it is an illusion.” Shadowheart said, squinting at the closest passing farmer. “A trap of some kind meant to waylay caravans?”

Lyric considered nocking an arrow to test that theory but thought better of it as soon as the first of the villagers turned to address them. It was a man, perhaps middle-aged, with a curled mess of sandy-brown hair, deep grooves at the sides of his mouth, and the full-day scruff of a beard.

“Greetings, travelers!” He called out. “Welcome to the Hecatomb. Been a long time. Nice to see some folks coming this way again.”

The group exchanged looks and none of them happily. 

“Does…. does he know what that word means?” Astarion was the only one among them who had not bothered to take up his weapon and stood, arms crossed, still in the middle of the road.

Lyric shot him a concerned glare but he just shrugged. “Well, it’s an important question given the circumstances don’t you think?”

“What does it mean?” Wyll whispered to Gale. But Lae’zel answered for him before he got the chance.

“It is the name given to a place of great sacrifice, or great massacre. Wherever the slaughter of many innocents takes place is hecatomb.”

“Oh. Lovely.” He swallowed hard and made ready again.

When the erstwhile village herald called out to them once more, Lyric opted instead for the diplomatic solution while the others remained cautious in formation around her.

“Hello.” She called back. “My apologies but what did you say the name of this town was?”

The man placed a large basket on the ground next to him and walked up closer to the group, seeming to take no offense or concern what-so-ever that all but one of them regarded him with weapons drawn and magic at the ready. 

“The Hecatomb.” He stated, extending his hand in a friendly gesture. “You must have come from Gideon’s Well up the valley. What brings you lot down here?”

“I…I don’t think I know a Gideon’s Well. And actually, we didn’t even know your…town…was here. We are on our way up to the Temple and…”

“Oh.” He interrupted, dropping his arm with a look of disquiet. “Oh, I see. Well, you’re not the first travelers to get lost going that way. Happens all the time really. A few wrong turns and you end up here instead. It’s the mountain roads, I think. Very bad directions.”

“Lost?” Lae’zel sniffed indignantly. “I’ll have you know we’ve come this way before. We certainly are not lost.”

“And yet, here you are!” He returned with a sense of anxious amusement. “Listen, not to worry. Maybe rest a spell’s length, get yourselves a good meal, and you can be back out here in no time. Too far to the temple now anyway. Maybe a day or two back the way you came.”

“A day or two?! We shouldn’t be more than…” Gale almost shouted before Shadowheart had the introspection to elbow him in the ribs.

Lyric, however, was growing more and more apprehensive the longer the man talked. It did not escape her that his words were weirdly twisted, using phrases like “bad directions” as if to suggest that somehow the roads themselves had purposely led them astray or “rest a spell’s length” without mentioning who’s. She pointedly looked over at Astarion who looked back at her with his jaw set and his eyes hooded.

“Astarion?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Do you have any thoughts on this?”

“Oh, a great many I’m afraid but nothing that I think will be immediately helpful to us. Though...” He turned back to their village welcome. “May I ask _your_ name?”

“Yes! Of course! My manners, then. My name is Phinneas Delg. Of the Caldway and Upton Delgs, you know. Scattered all over the countryside at this point really.”

His words continued to inspire troubled thoughts among more than one in the assembled company. But Astarion continued to key in to what he did best.

“All pleasantries to you, Mr. Delg.”

“Please. Just Phinneas.”

“Well then, if we are to have proper introductions, I am Astarion and this fetching creature you see here next to me is Lyric. That lovely if somewhat hostile warrior is Lae’zel and on to our companions, Gale, Wyll, and, not to be missed, sweet Shadowheart.”

“I am quite pleased to meet all of you. Care to retire down to the Lamb’s Head? Great food, honestly. Might not seem like the kind of place to have high quality but the mead’s strong, the stew is hearty, and the beds are clean. Like I said, we don’t get a lot of pass-throughs this time of year and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind of visit. Maybe even scrounge up a halfway decent bard for a song or two to help you relax?”

Lyric couldn’t help but shift on her feet. A few of the other townsfolk had taken notice of their arrival, such as it was, and had either stopped to wave or were making motions for them to come further into the village. Only Phinneas had actually approached them though and the peculiar way in which he spoke and occasionally stared at the various members of the group had all of her senses of unease primed. There was nothing about this little unassuming hamlet that felt right even if no obvious flaw presented itself. It felt wrong, the people felt wrong, she just couldn’t put her finger on exactly why. Even Phinneas himself seemed perfected for a benign kind of courtesy. He was well-spoken and polite, not particularly handsome but certainly not ugly, dressed in a wool tunic and carrying a produce basket while acting as if randomly meeting the strangest association of humans, elves, half-elves, and Gith was the most normal thing to happen to him today. This was all completely aside from the fact that there was no way they could have traveled so far out from their destination in just the span of a morning to set the Temple behind them by two days or more.

But then, as if sensing the nature of her thoughts, Phinneas responded. “You know, we don’t really see a lot of elves around here. Pretty special, if you ask me. I mean, certainly not elves as enchanting as you. We could use some new blood.”

Now she was concerned on a completely new level but it was Astarion who took up the thread of conversation, picking at the more innocuous parts of the discussion while ignoring the implications at the end.

“Really? That’s odd. It’s not as if elves are a rarity around here.”

Phinneas eyed Astarion up and down, lingering from time to time on the pale elf’s obviously well-made doublet and on the way in which he slowly rubbed his thumb and forefingers together when he spoke.

“Well, maybe not where you’re all from.” He said. “But it’s not every day we get the fairer folk on this road.”

“Yes, well, you know what?” Lyric had had enough and turned to ensure that the road out of town was, indeed, still there. “It was a kind invitation but we really must be getting on. If the Temple is as far away as you say, we need to make up some time. Thank you, Phinneas. It was nice to meet you. I bid you a good day.”

The smile melted from his face as the man’s features slackened into an expressionless mask. He then looked from her to Astarion and then to Shadowheart before returning his gaze back to her. “I don’t think you understand, my lady. I wasn’t extending an invitation; I was giving you a recommendation on the best place to go now that you’re here. I don’t know what you think you see but there is no road behind you. There is nothing behind you. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry…. what?”

“No one leaves the Hecatomb. No one. Ever.”

Astarion…the bastard…burst out laughing.

(*Yes, it’s a Beauty and the Beast joke.)


	4. Ouroboros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of the Hecatomb deepens. And then, they make the mistake of stopping for dinner....

**Ouroboros**

“Well, that settles it then.” Gale huffed as he and Lae’zel rejoined the company at the center of town. “You were right, Lyric. Every road out of this place just turns off into the woods for a while until it dumps you back out at the edge of the village. Doesn’t matter if you stay on the path or not.”

“It was infuriating.” The Githyanki added with a growl.

Lyric sat pensively at the edge of large, rounded, platform the size of a common room – ostensibly the heavy oaken lid capping the mouth of the town’s central well. To her mind, however, it looked much more like a ready foundation for the scaffolding of a hangman’s gibbet. It was smooth and polished all across the top and bore brown-black stains where some such structure had once sat upon it; with leftover rusted nails still sticking up where planks had been pried away. It also clearly hadn’t been moved in ages; the yellowish lichens and green mosses on the underside of the lip were completely undisturbed. 

Astarion, already returned from his own foray up the central road with Shadowheart, leaned against the cap at her side, arms crossed but expression neutral. 

“I told you.” He repeated amiably. “We must have crossed some sort of magic barrier back there. Or passed through a hidden gateway. We could be on another plane for all we know right now. Again, that is.”

Gale brushed the dirt from his sleeves and turned about. “That seems unlikely. We would have seen something. Some indication of a planar shift. Furthermore, Phinneas seems to know about the Temple and the area around here. Not likely for a village man in a completely different world.”

“What do you think happened then?” Astarion quirked an eyebrow with passive interested.

“Well, extra-dimensional space isn’t exactly a new magical concept. The Philosophical Discourse of the Rope Trick is pretty standard even in basic arcana books.”

The rogue sighed and casually flipped his hand in irritation before answering. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it is. But aside from the Philosophical Discourse and all that, _how_ did this happen?”

Gale smirked. “A very powerful wizard. That’s my guess.”

Lyric decided then to intervene before the exchange inevitably deteriorated. “Rope mechanics aren’t really our concern right now. The question is, how do we get out of here? Obviously walking out isn’t going to work and the townsfolk have, thus far, been less than forthcoming with suggestions. Likely because they don’t know either. But if what you say, Gale, is true. We’re going to need magic to get out of this.”

“Or finding the source of it.” Shadowheart interjected.

As if on cue, all six companions turned and glanced towards the massive well, staring across its slumped walls and ancient overgrowth with unease. 

But Astarion was the first to ask, “Hmm. What are the odds it’s _that_ obvious?”

Lyric reflexively checked their surroundings. No one had approached them save for the man who had identified himself as Phinneas Delg and even when a few locals happened to pass near to or through the town square, they studiously avoided the adventuring party with wide berths and downcast eyes. At first, Lyric couldn’t tell whether it was their company that was being evaded or the well itself, since no one seemed at all interested in getting too close to that either. Rather, they went about mundane business; moving food stores, cutting wood, fixing up houses, or meandering towards the tavern, all the while keeping clear of the new additions and their plain conversations of escape. As such, the townsfolk appeared to be intentionally paying them no mind. The ranger scowled.

“We don’t know how they’ll react if we try to open it. Which, by the looks of the size of this thing, would take most of us. I don’t see any hinges or even a water port, so I’m thinking this cap wasn’t meant to move and whatever is under there isn’t meant to come out.”

“Shove it off and let us have at it then.” Lae’zel replied. “I see no reason to indulge the secrets of this place any longer.”

Lyric glanced over to her lover. “I guess you’ll get your wish after all. Not exactly the dank hole of the Underdark though.”

He smiled; in that vaguely sneering way he often did when they engaged in casual banter. Astarion’s demeanor, however, was still unreadable. There was so much he tended to leave unsaid and their little detour into the haunted hamlet with the disturbing name wasn’t helping matters. 

“Fine.” Lyric groused, pushing herself up fully to her feet. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with. Gale, Wyll, you’ll need to lever it from the other side. The rest of us can then shift it over once we have some space between the rim and the cap. It’s going to go off loud though, so be ready for whatever comes our way afterwards…. from either direction.”

It was, indeed, a near monumental effort. The wooden platform was completely solid, untouched by rot despite its unprotected exposure, with some three planks layered down with a depressed ridge around the underside to keep it from sliding easily. It was also even heavier than they had anticipated and barely budged through the first two calls to ‘heave ho.’ In the end, the companions were forced to use a pair of nearby cow stanchions to maintain what little leverage they could manage before one last cooperative effort finally pushed the cap far enough off of its supports to create a crescent opening around the lee of the well. As it slid, there was such a racket of wood griding against stone that all of the assembled were certain it would bring some manner of townsfolk running to see what was going on. But no one came. No one even so much as raised a questioning look in their direction.

Barely enough to fit one person through at a time, Lyric was none-the-less pleased that the opening was wide enough to let in enough of the late afternoon light for her to look at whatever might be hiding underneath them. Or, if nothing else, gauge the depths to which they would need to descend to find out more. She leaned over the ledge and peered down.

Into a flat mound of dirt just a few feet below.

“What?!”

Shadowheart leaned over next to her. “Well, would you look at that. It’s completely filled in.”

The ranger straightened with an angry flourish. “That doesn’t make _any_ sense. What’s the point of putting such a massive seal over what amounts to nothing more than a stone ring then?”

“Maybe they were just itching for a stage.” Astarion chuckled.

Lyric deflated. “I guess that answers that question. _Not_ so obvious.”

Wyll prodded at the loose soil with a dagger tip. “This ground’s been disturbed. And not too long ago I’d reckon. It’s the Hecatomb, yeah? Maybe this is where they’ve been burying the bodies.”

Astarion visibly perked up, his voice laced with amused sarcasm. “Wyll, are you suggesting that these lovely, innocent, townspeople here have been magically poaching travelers off of the road and then sacrificing them to some horrible thing before stuffing their corpses down a well and packing them in?”

Wyll looked mildly confused. “Uh, I wasn’t… but now that you mention it, it’s not like we haven’t seen weirder.”

“Well, this is getting us nowhere.” Lyric was still frustrated. She hated magical deception and if this town was really a cult with some kind of esoteric necromancy, it could be even worse. In fact, she harbored a special distaste for both the dead and the undead, as did many of the elves of her native homeland. Which was ironic really, given her recent choice of bedmates. Vampires, in her dissonant logic though, didn’t quite count in the same as, say, zombies or skeletons. Said bedmate, however, was looking off into the distance; fixated on something else entirely.

“Well, well. Speaking of the devils, look who’s back.”

Lyric stepped away from the edge of the well to see none other than Phinneas Delg returning to their company with a wide smile and an air of excitement. 

“There you are, my friends!” He exclaimed with unearned glee. “I thought I might find you all ‘round and about here. I’ve been looking for you!”  
It was another odd statement, considering that they hadn’t managed to go very far since arriving, but Lyric decided to let it pass.

“Got your room all ready to go back at Lamb’s Head. I thought you might like some dinner since it’ll be getting dark soon. You really don’t want to be out here when it gets dark.”

She just had to take the bait on that one, though.

“Why? What happens when it gets dark?

“Whole place goes all topsy-turvy” He answered; again, with far too much enthusiasm than was honestly called for by their circumstances. “Roads get re-arranged; buildings get all jumbled about. Lost more than our fair share of locals to a sudden tree or an unexpected fence, let me tell you. But as long as you’re indoors, it’s all fine and good. Tavern might be somewhere new in the morning but you’ll be safe and sound inside it.”

“And this?” Lyric gestured towards the well. 

“Oh, that.” Phinneas shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “It’ll be right here. Always is. Nothing of interest about it though. Just an old well from back when there was a lake nearby. But, you know, that was a long time ago.”

“I see.”

“So, whattya say?” The smile and jovial expressions returned. “Want to head on over and try the stew?”

The company looked to her and Lyric was immediately at a loss. “Yeah, ok. Fine. Unless anyone has a better idea?”

Shadowheart grumbled but voiced their collective agreement. “We could use the rest. And besides, maybe we’ll get a better sense of this place in there than out here. We’ve tried exploring the land, so let’s talk to some of the people. Maybe a few of them got here the same way as we did.”

Lae’zel nodded. “It could reveal something useful. Or, if they are not forthcoming, we can crush it out of them.”

Lyric glanced back at Phinneas, who remained unperturbed despite the predatory way in which the Gith sized him up. When she looked back at Astarion, he simply smiled again.

“Lead on.” He said with a curt bow.

~~*~~

The Lamb’s Head, as the sign out front indicated, was a large, two-storey, rambling building currently situated on the northern outskirts of the town called Hecatomb. True to Phinneas’ description, the heavy, oaken, doors opened up into a spacious tavern room filled with tables and patrons who represented a surprisingly diverse mixture of ethnicities and presentations. By their modes of dress and pronounced accents, Lyric had to guess that there were people from all over the continent represented and in such a way that she had not seen or heard since she was last in a sailing harbor. In line with her earlier observations however, they were all human. Each and every one. Not a single elf, half-elf, dwarf, orc, gnome, halfling, or any other kin in their midst save those that made up her own party. They were, on the other hand, scattered around in small groups of those who appeared to speak and act similarly. It looked, from what she could tell, like random bands of possible wanderers who had all suffered the same misfortune of becoming trapped in the Hecatomb but who had somehow managed to do so without any of their other-kin companions.

Or, as she feared, they had lost them during their stay.

The rest of the Lamb’s Head was muted in low firelight but the company could make out a long bar-counter on the far end of the main tavern followed by a twisting staircase just behind it; ostensibly that which must lead upstairs to the rented rooms. From the rafters, a series of dried herb bundles and preserved fruits hung over the dining area, and what appeared to be pressed pages of a woodblock book were tacked haphazardly here and there to the walls. Alongside them, old portraits stared out from chipped frames and a single fading pastoral landscape hung above the massive fieldstone fireplace. The mantel was, in fact, so large that Lyric noted one could fit two grown adult humans on top of it lengthwise and still have room for the tub-vase of dead flowers that sat there now.

In all, the tavern was what she might describe as rustic. The wooden beams were rough but stable, the floor only made smooth by years of shuffling boots and repeated sweepings. The walls were mud-plaster, often patched with new horsehair and clay that didn’t quite match the color of the previous layer to create spotty mosaics of grey, beige, and white. And a stone foundation whose eclectic blend of granite, shale, and lime-quartz together made the entire structure look like a worn-out quilt that someone had mended far too many times to be meaningful any longer. In a sense, the people looked much the same way. Everything felt cobbled together, from the audience to the ambiance.

The assembled company took an open table without comment, though Lyric was the last to join them. She was still hesitant about this decision and the fact that the patrons didn’t seem at all concerned by the elves, half-elf, and Githyanki in their midst worried her even more. In most cases, when crowds of humans made such a point of welcoming without actually being welcoming, it almost always meant that something more nefarious was at stake than just passive disinterest. She’d hoped for some sort of reaction really; even just enough to better understand why this town had no others but was also so receiving of them. She did notice that her friends appeared relieved though, at least temporarily, to have a moment to relax and regroup. She sat down at the strangely-familiar round wooden table with a thump.

“Well this is nice.” Astarion commented aside.

“Seems normal.” Gale replied. “Normal for here, I mean. But I’ll tell you what. I have an idea. Once night sets in, I’ll see if I can get a look at the center of town from the windows upstairs. Maybe we can watch it change; see if there is a pattern to it. Might give us a clue to the kind of magic at work here.”

Shadowheart scraped a pensive nail over the finish of the table. “I’ll keep an eye on the patrons and the barkeepers too. See if the people down here start to behave strangely. Well, more so than is already obvious.”

“I’ll get a better look at the tavern itself.” Wyll added. “Might be a way to figure out why the buildings don’t change on the inside. An inscription or…” He glanced upwards at the hanging bundle of crumbling mugwort and dried fennel over their table. “…something else.”

Lyric turned to Lae’zel, who furrowed her brow and answered simply. “I’ll keep watch. They could attack us at any moment.”

Astarion sighed. “And I will do what I do best, I suppose. I’ve always enjoyed a good round of carousing. Let’s see if the locals have anything interesting to say about our mutual predicament. Yes?”

“Alright.” Lyric concurred. “Hopefully something will come of it. I have a feeling that we’re poking a sleeping beast here, so be careful. Just get far enough under the surface and whatever is weaving this web will come out to investigate. Keep your guard up too. It’s not lost on me that we’re the most interesting thing going in this town right now.”

As the company settled, plans formulating and tasks negotiated, Lyric couldn’t help but try to steal a small moment of connection; surreptitiously resting her hand on Astarion’s thigh beneath the table. When he didn’t respond, however, she inwardly cursed herself for unthinkingly seeking his affection, even if only casually, when it was likely there was none truly between them. It wasn’t like they were betrothed or anything after all. They’d had their fun, wasn’t that the point? An impassioned tumble in the woods that was perhaps nothing more than that? Wasn’t that what she had thought at the start? But he hadn’t so much as looked at her that way since then. Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, she began to pull her hand away. 

To her surprise, though his face betrayed nothing, Lyric felt the palm of Astarion’s hand suddenly cover hers for the brief moment it took for him to move her hand back to where it was. He then folded his arms onto the edge of the table and continued to observe the others. It was such a temperate gesture but Lyric found herself dramatically overthinking it anyway. What did it mean? Was he expressing some kind of deeply guarded emotion? A flicker of recognition of what they had shared the night before? Or was he simply telling her that he didn’t mind being touched? She squeezed his leg reflexively and was about to whisper something to him when…

“Ok, what’ll you have?”

The barmaid tapped her foot impatiently. An imposing woman with bright red hair arranged into an overflowing bun and a basic, woolen, dress beneath her linen apron, she struck a rather intimidating, if minimalist, figure. She also appeared to be easily in her late forties if not for her pale, freckled, skin that looked to have seen little to nothing of actual sunshine in that time. The resultingly unwrinkled countenance belied a woman who was possibly much older than her careful hygiene, or reclusiveness, revealed.

“I’m told the stew is quite good!” Gale spoke up with a pleasant grin, trying his best to be genial and non-threatening. 

The woman rolled her eyes. “Fine. Will that be Kobold or Worm?”

Shadowheart gasped and Wyll actually squeaked.

Even Lyric had to take a moment to breath in before answering. “I’m…sorry? Did you just say Kobold and Worm?”

The barmaid turned to look at her, conspicuously eyeing Lyric’s pointed ears with a sly glare before correcting the question. “Kobold _or_ Worm. You don’t get both, missy.”

The rest of the crew were equally horrified. Except, of course, for Astarion, who was about half a second from absolutely bursting at the seams with laughter. Everything, thus far, had almost felt like it was tailor-made to appeal to the worst in his sense of humor and the rogue was having a hard time not going off the deep end.

“You put Kobolds in a stew?!” Gale sat back, repulsed.

“Do you see any sheep or cows around here, hun?” The woman gesticulated wildly around her head, as if to indicate the whole of the situation. “It’s not like we got fields that stick around for any longer’n a day or two. Or herds, for that matter. We get Kobolds, a goblin on occasion, and the worms. And we’re out of goblins right now. So those are your options unless some vegetables and broth are good enough for you. You want stew or not?”

Lae’zel waved her hand dismissively in the wake of the terror slowly dawning on her companions. “I will take mine with the Kobold. My companions will have theirs with only vegetables. Now go. Fetch it.”

Astarion chuckled as the barmaid curled her lip at the Gith and stalked away towards the kitchen. “You know, I’ve never been so happy to not be a, well, ‘food’ kind of person. But I do have to say, Kobold isn’t actually that bad. I mean, relatively speaking of course. Considering that I’ve never tried to chew one. Mmmm….I wonder what the wine is like. Or, if they even have any.”

Lyric stared at the receding apron and angry barmaid before dragging her eyes back up to Astarion’s smug smile and tilted expression. He patted her hand gently where it still rested on his leg. 

This was going to be so much worse than she thought.


End file.
